


Declaration

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Established Relationship, Gossip, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She promised me she wouldn’t, the lying harpy!” Scrubbing his face with one hand, wishing he could do something else entirely but sticks of doom, Rodney used the other to point at Teyla accusingly. “You read it!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Declaration

Teyla was between them and the door. She was sitting on the bed, serene to the point of being yogi-like, completely relaxed and at her ease—and Rodney knew if either of them so much as twitched, she’d be on her feet, sticks of doom out, herding them back.

God _dammit_.

“Look, Teyla, I’m not really sure what you’re asking for, here.” John wore his most placating expression; it made him look like a reject from planet Dorkdom, especially when he _bobbed his head_ , a living version of those ridiculous big-headed dolls. It had also stopped working on his teammates the second time he ever tried it on them. _Two years_ ago. “I mean... what?”

Folding her arms, Teyla raised a single eyebrow. Rodney wasn’t sure what it was about aliens and arched eyebrows, perfectly angled in the middle to make them look even more exotic, but he was grateful it’d stopped being a turn-on.

“I do not see the difficulty,” she told them. Again. “Is it not expected of you?”

“Expected?” Rodney snapped, trying not to let his jaw drop. He was miffed that Teyla’d come here to ask them her insane questions, basically bearding them in their own den—only instead of arrogantly certain of their high ground, Rodney was feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. He suspected the ratty t-shirts and loose sweats they wore to be part of that problem. It was hard to be righteously indignant when you didn’t have shoes on. “Why would it be _expected_? For anyone? It’s—it’s—”

“ _Private_ ,” John jumped in, and Rodney silently thanked John for finally figuring out when finishing his sentences was acceptable. Stupid annoying habit, even if it was useful when he was spluttering incoherently. “It’s got, um, nothing to do with anyone who is—I mean, who isn’t... ”

John looked at Rodney, helpless; Rodney glared right back. No way in hell was he finishing _that_ sentence, no matter how true it was.

Teyla missed that particular memo, unfortunately. “When it is not the two of you? I know that I am unfamiliar with many of your customs, but I have been _shown_ that this is something important. Something to be celebrated and made visible to ones closest friends; I do not see why you refuse to share it.”

They were in trouble. They were in deep, _deep_ trouble, and John clutching the blankets like that was only going to tear them, not get them into less trouble. This wasn’t, as Rodney had first suspected, the product of some insane, feminine whim. Oh, no. This was Teyla wishing to _share_ something with them, to be included and part of something that she could never truly be part of, proof of their trust and hers and oh, god. Oh, god, _no_ , Rodney knew why she was pushing this.

He must have made a noise. Something. Possibly visibly having a heart attack, which was what it _felt_ like, because Teyla wasn’t giving him hurt, vulnerable bambi-eyes anymore but looking legitimately worried. Even worse, John had a hand on Rodney’s shoulder, fingers biting just a little too deep for casual concern, face absolutely blank.

Rodney ignored both of them. “Oh, god,” he said aloud, too horrified to worry about the way his voice cracked. “You didn’t—she wouldn’t have—oh, my _god_ , please, please tell me she didn’t.”

“Didn’t what, McKay?” John demanded, his words military terse. He was _really_ worried then, although whether it was Rodney finally going crazy or because of whatever had freaked Rodney out in the first place no one but John could know. “Who didn’t?”

“Simpson. She _promised me_ she wouldn’t, the lying harpy!” Scrubbing his face with one hand, wishing he could do something else entirely but _sticks of doom_ , Rodney used the other to point at Teyla accusingly. “You read it!”

Convinced that nothing was genuinely wrong, Teyla reverted back to the eyebrow arch of irony. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No! Yes! Yes, you were not supposed to, _no one_ was supposed to, and this is just Simpson’s way of getting back at me, I don’t care what she tells you about purity and stability and whatever psycho-romantic babble she’s spouted at you. It’s intrusive and incredibly disturbing, really, there were _nightmares_! Genuine nightmares and really, how flexible does she think I am and—and, oh, nevermind, it’s just _wrong_!”

The room echoed with Rodney’s harsh panting when he finally stopped. Teyla was watching him, face inscrutable, but it wasn’t her Rodney was really worried about. It was John, who was certainly smart enough to put his babbling together and Rodney didn’t want that to happen. Rodney had tried to _make sure_ that wouldn’t happen, including frantically hunting—although not finding—memory purging devices and computer witch-hunts. Bad enough Rodney knew, if John did—if he figured it out...

Rodney risked a glance to his left, unsurprised to see John’s brow furrowed in confusion, his right hand automatically tensing over his non-existent gun. Reading hysteria was second nature, Rodney knew, and right now John was seeing _imminent attack_ , which had its own habitual responses.

The worst part, though, was that they _were_ being attacked. Maybe not in ways that guns would be useful forms of defense, or maybe even in ways John could even understand, but _Rodney_ did. He glared at Teyla, annoyed that she put them in this position, trying to scale walls no woman could ever really find the edges of, let alone understand how deep they went.

“Rodney,” John asked, voice low and tense and obviously trying not to freak out the way Rodney knew he wanted to; that was a bad habit Rodney was instilling in him, “what the hell is going on?”

Rodney scowled, snapping, “Simpson is an evil bitch-monster of death, that’s what’s going on. She’s invaded privacy and corrupted Teyla and being on sewer duty for the next _year_ will be the very least of what I do to her!”

His answer—or possibly the quote, Rodney could never be sure—made John relax out of his fight-or-flight anticipation. _Buffy_ always made John too amused to worry. While Rodney continued to rant and snarl to himself, John gave Teyla his version of the eyebrow trick, which _did_ still turn Rodney on. When he wasn’t this furious, anyway.

She smiled, openly entertained now that John was. “You know that I am learning how to read your language, yes?” she explained. There were _way_ too many memos for Teyla and Ronon to be out of the loop, and even more emails. “I have been using old mission reports to practice, upon Elizabeth’s suggestion. Dr. Simpson knows this and thought that I would perhaps enjoy works of fiction, as well. She claimed it would be more entertaining, as well as provide a greater range of spelling and vocabulary.”

Rodney buried his face in his hands when John made a peculiar expression. Simpson’s interests weren’t exactly secret. And John wasn’t exactly stupid. Taking a deep breath, John hesitantly asked,“So... what exactly did she give you?”

“She called them romance novels,” Teyla said, smiling beatifically. Apparently, romance novels were a hit. “One of them she had written herself, starring characters quite familiar although the names were—Colonel? Are you well? You have gone very pale.”

Lifting his head up, Rodney nodded frantically. Even John’s _hair_ looked horrified. Rodney was going to ignore the tiny, tiny flicker of a smile tugging on the corner of John’s mouth and concentrate on the way the hazel part of his eye was expanding—that meant promised retribution and that was _good_. “We can’t kill her,” he said, although he really, really wanted to.

John glared. “Why not?”

“Besides the fact that murder is generally considered unacceptable without a pressing reason? I caveat because I do recall the last few years, thanks.”

“This _is_ a pressing reason!”

Staring at each other, red-faced from embarrassment and anger—really, Rodney was getting very good at ignoring John when he was trying to hide his amusement, since he did it _so_ poorly—it took both of them a moment to realize that Teyla was making a very, very strange noise. It rose and fell in predictable patterns, a lightness to it that her normal speaking voice rarely carried, honey-golden and joyous as it grew louder, a constant, thrumming roll that swept over all of them.

“Oh my god, she’s _laughing at us_!” Rodney shouted.

That made the laughter grow louder, but pressing things like breathing and the twin death-glares she was receiving eventually took precedence. “No,” she said, gasping as she tried to control herself. “Truly, Rodney, I am not. However—if I promise to never again read the stories Simpson herself has written, will you both? Please?”

The tips of his ears flushed bright red, John rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t quite inching away from Rodney, but it was close. “Look, Teyla, it isn’t like that. Not in, you know, real life. We’re guys. Maybe we’re a little different than you thought befo—or, okay, you didn’t, stop looking at me like that, but we’re still _us_ and we just... don’t do that. _Won’t_ do that. It’s kind of inappropriate to even ask.”

“Then you do not—”

For once, John caught the verbal cue and shook his head. He looked regretful, although it was hard to tell since mostly he just looked incredibly constipated. “That isn’t the point.”

And it wasn’t. The answer wasn’t the issue and hadn’t been from the moment Teyla first asked them. It was that she asked them at all that was so uncomfortable and... and _rude_ although Teyla was never rude. Rodney tried to convince himself that all of that true—and it _was_ —but listening to John explain why they were so upset and flustered felt wrong. Hollow. Like it wasn’t just John’s normal reticence about anything personal that made him sound so choked, blindly grasping for words that didn’t want to be said, but something more. Something _worse_.

It couldn’t be that hard, right? Making certain his voice would be flat—because there were _limits_ —Rodney swallowed hard. 

“I love you.”

John froze. So did Teyla. Rodney had already frozen, air cold and sharp as he realized that yes, yes he _had_ said that out loud. When John’s head swung towards him, slow and pained, Rodney hysterically wondered if it would keep on spinning, Exorcist-style, as John contemplated something neither of them had ever thought of or wanted to acknowledge.

Well, not really, anyway.

“You what?”

The hoarse, stunned-fish quality to John’s voice sparked Rodney’s anger. He folded his arms across his chest, glaring. “Oh, what, I’m not emotionally stable enough to say that? Yes, Lt. Colonel John Sheppard, with whom I’ve been sleeping for the past eight months, I love you. A, um. Kind of a lot.” 

Declarations were easy when he was feeling put upon. When John was actually looking at him, wide-eyed, mouth half-open and almost _swinging_ in surprise, though, it was harder to maintain the indignation he needed.

They were _guys_. Just because he felt things like love—a stupid emotion, if there ever was one, prompting him to do all kinds of insane things—didn’t mean he had to talk about it. They didn’t need to. The fact that they managed to find time almost every day to sneak away together, spent almost all their limited free time together, and constantly checked up on each other when there wasn’t any free time to spend... that was enough. It was what he _needed_ , fabulous and perfect without any kind of labels at all because Rodney hadn’t honestly cared about anything except when they were going to find their next chance to get laid, or maybe watch the tenth Doctor Who—except now he was worried he’d done something to damage that.

Not just the getting-laid part. The being-with-John part of it.

John coughed. He looked like he’d swallowed something sharp and bitter, his Adam’s apple working almost convulsively. “I, uh,” he croaked, “I loveyoutoo.”

Silence descended for a few seconds. John looked terrified, mouth flattened into a small pink line that meant he was trying to be stoic and failing, and Rodney was afraid of what his own face was giving away. The room was unnaturally silent, afterwards, neither of them certain what else to say, or how to ease the discomfort Rodney knew they both shared. 

He did kind of like it when John flushed, though. It made his elf-ears stand out even more.

Catching John’s furtive glance towards Teyla, Rodney sighed. Yes, he really _was_ the more emotionally stable—or maybe just verbally confident—one because he knew John would sit there, doing nothing, until Teyla made the first move. So Rodney did it for him. “Is that enough?” he snapped, glaring at Teyla. “We’ve said it, we’re humiliated, is there anything else you need?”

“Yes. Do you mean it?”

What? Of course he meant it, Rodney never said anything he didn’t mean. And, okay, so John _did_ say lots of things he didn’t mean, but that was irrelevant. Rodney was in no way going to get twisted up worrying about whether or not it was true, because that was ridiculous and girly and really, why the hell were they even having this conversation, none of them were thirteen and Teyla was usually far too levelheaded to ever—

“Yeah. We mean it.”

Rodney blinked, lost in the rough wonder of John’s voice, barely aware that Teyla kissed both their cheeks, murmuring thanks and well wishes before exiting. John met his gaze without wavering.

“I mean it,” he said. It didn’t matter that the words were stuttered and he hadn’t lost the constipated, about to throw up look—he _meant_ it.

Oh.

Swallowing again, Rodney belatedly realized that Teyla had, indeed, gone, leaving them alone. That was fortunate, since Rodney really wasn’t in the mood to have their confessions dissected the way every female he’d ever met usually did. There were more pressing issues, anyway. “Um,” he said, clearing his throat. As soon as he found one of those more pressing issues... “Oh! Right, Simpson. We need to think of ways to kill Simpson without _actually_ killing her.” Leaning over the bed, he snagged his laptop and called up Simpson’s schedule. 

When John immediately crowded against his side, chin hooked on his shoulder the way he always did when they shared a laptop screen, something tight and frigid inside Rodney’s gut turned loose and warm.

“Hm,” John said, pointing at one particular block. “She’s scheduled to go out with Lorne tomorrow, to MX3-484.”

“Lorne _and_ Parrish, as a matter of fact. She’s written about them, too. I, uh, might have a copy left. If you want.”

John shook his head frantically, dislodging it from Rodney’s shoulder as he glared. “No! No way, Rodney. I do _not_ need images of what my second gets up to, at all.”

“Oh, come on, you know she’s making it all up. God, the things she had you and me—”

“ _At all_ , McKay!”

Amazing how John using that tone of voice fixed things. He’d never enjoyed making people exasperated with him, but since John never lost the fondness underneath, like a hint of chocolate in bitter coffee... Smirking, Rodney called up the rest of Lorne’s teams schedule. “So, punishing Simpson. Ideas?”

Reattaching himself now that it was safe, John grinned. “I think the scientists need a little workout before going to this particular planet, don’t you? Only I think Parrish is going to be far, far too busy.”

“Oh, I can do that.” Crap, that’d mean being nice to _botanists_ or whatever Parrish was. All for a cause, though, and there was _no way_ Simpson didn’t know what she was doing when she showed Teyla her stories. She totally deserved this.

Stupid women with their stupid romantic notions. What did it matter if they said anything at all? Saying things always meant trouble, particularly _those_ kinds of declarations. He didn’t need it.

All he needed was an invitation to Stockholm to pick up his Nobel, and second one for John so he could be in the audience. But in the meantime, he’d settle for plotting Simpson’s downfall and stealing kisses whenever John started gnawing on his lower lip.


End file.
